


Shadows Variant: So Are You

by Teland



Series: Shadows of Better Men [5]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Monologue, Problematic Relationship Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-04
Updated: 1998-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Alex has never heard the term 'projection'.





	Shadows Variant: So Are You

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I begged kormantic to give me a story   
challenge and she did. How to classify this... Hmm. Not   
quite a sequel to "Shadows of Better Men I," though it   
would probably help to read that first. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: To Alicia for fine audiencing, to Spike   
for many helpful comments, to Sister Blue for showing me   
that all things can be romantic, to Viridian for the title,   
and to ciceqi and Alicia for fine, fine beta.

I want I want I want. Do you know what that means? I bet   
you think you do. Seems rather simple, doesn't it? You want   
a nice car, you want your boss to respect you, you want to   
get laid by someone whose technique doesn't put you to   
sleep. You want *nothing*. You wouldn't know desire if I   
walked right in and --

Well, perhaps that's the answer after all. 

Would you like that, Mulder? 

I would. 

And, really, that's all that matters. 

I can almost feel your sneer at that. I'm so close to you   
right now. You're sleeping on that bed. Convincing yourself   
it's yours again, maybe? After all, no other body but yours   
ever rested on it -- you hope -- and all mammals mark their   
territory after any perceived intrusion. Really, you're   
just being a very healthy ape.

No matter how much you miss your couch. 

Would it surprise you that I know you so well? Probably,   
and I feel as though I should be insulted by that idea,   
sometimes. Just sometimes, mind you. I know after all these   
years how hard it must be to assume you're known, and   
understood.

But, Mulder... I've had my years, too. I studied you head   
to heel and back again. I read your papers. I interviewed   
all but one of your instructors. And that one... well, it's   
a shame that his resistance to our methods finally made him   
have that unfortunate heart attack. Such is life, yes? 

I want to hear you laugh with me at that. I could make you   
laugh. I could catch you unawares and then I'd see that   
crinkle of shock, that utter disbelief that not only am I   
just as awful as you remembered, but... so are you.

You are, beloved, you are. 

You are my sweet, my bitter chocolate rich with lush liquid   
sugar and I need do nothing but take a bite and hold on. I   
can hold on to you. I can make you...

I was wrong to leave, I see that now. The project must   
never be abandoned without completion or eradication. You   
were never complete, nor is it possible to destroy you   
without destroying myself. 

I love you, don't you see?

Oh, Mulder.... If I say that when you wake will your head   
turn to me so sweetly?

But to let us both live after my spectacular failure... No,   
it cannot be done. Every scar, every burn, every casual   
mutilation... They were not punishments. They were, each   
and all, badges. Medals. I, Aleksander Ivanovich Petrov am   
given this award for the survival of human stupidity. And   
with each pinning, more of the imperfect was sloughed away.

Flesh, all flesh, and have you ever watched the decay? The   
flesh is *nothing* without the fire of the soul. The wet,   
shapeless mess grabs at the spark and buries it deep. Thus   
are people made. Those of us who are lucky have clumsier   
flesh than most, already strained and worn thin as crepe.   
It grabs too quickly, lacks finesse, the fillips and   
tendrils of the un-souled skin fumble at their chosen   
spark, places here and there forever burned.

You know them when you see them on the streets, Mulder. I   
know you do. We know and love the all, the all of them,   
because we are all *kin*. Born scarred. Born with parts of   
ourselves scraped clean of the detritus of form and muscle.   
The fire needs *nothing* of the flesh, and when we see   
kin... we see in their eyes the paths that searing heat   
carved.

Bone? Bone is lovely, but it remains corrupt. No, Mulder.   
There is nothing physical that can be claimed a proper   
avatar for our coming purity. I want so much for you, my   
love. Will you listen? Will you let me give what I can?

I'm whispering in your ear, but you do not wake. I   
misjudged the strength of the little pill in your takeout.   
Or perhaps you crunched it down like a sliver of water   
chestnut... You're not supposed to do that, Mulder. 

Oh, you make me smile. It feels so good, we are none of us   
immune to the pull of flesh, the odd rush and flow of   
chemistry, to brighten the eyes, show the teeth. When you   
wake up, I will make you explain that last to me, beloved.   
I will make you tell me just who I'm supposed to warn off   
with this ridiculous show of merry good cheer you engender. 

"Beware, lest I love you!"

Would you laugh at that, too? Not for long, I don't think.   
It has a truth, if only artistically. Si tu ne m'aime pas,   
si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime... et si je t'aime, prends   
gard a toi... 

Perhaps not so silly for us, Mulder. Though the thought   
angers me, I must admit. What *right* do you have to fear   
me? What hurt have I given you that was any more than what   
you *needed*?

Brief stir, a crease in your forehead. Not enough. I want   
you to wake. I want you to answer me. It is my right,   
Mulder. I *own* you. 

I catch myself. I am bracing myself awkwardly above you,   
breathing hard against your face. I could watch the flutter   
of your eyelashes, frustrate myself with the stubbornly   
static spikes of your hair. I could rest my weight on   
yours... I did not give you enough that you would not wake   
if breathing began to become difficult. And then you would   
wake, to my face, to my mouth stealing away those tiny   
breaths you'd managed to gasp.

I take everything you hold dear, isn't that right? One day   
you'll understand why your precious ones had to die, your   
so-called partner, your so-called friend. It was your   
fault, beloved, and I'm sad for you. I am, you make me   
weak, and if you weren't so potentially powerful for both   
of us, I'd kill you, too. 

But they... they had nothing to offer you but more flesh.   
More lies and weakness. They poisoned you. They poisoned my   
*work*. I love you too much to let that continue. I will   
never let anything hurt you again, this I promise.

I roll to your side, and content myself by stroking your   
face, smooth and smooth and then the uneven catch and burr   
of stubble. I would kiss you, but I feel no need to test my   
immunity to fairy tales when you did not wake. 

I could sleep. I could rest here beside you, trusting you   
not to try to hurt me when you awake. You need me, I know   
it, I saw it in your eyes before I walked out. You need me   
and you... you understand want. Not like the rest of them.   
You want and I am here for the taking, beloved. I would not   
have you go without. That is pain, and I won't hurt you   
again. 

You're listening, if only deep within your fire. It burns   
always, Mulder. No sleep for that which will never weary.   
No, no, it's all right. It's all right. I talk of things   
unsleeping, too far beyond the flesh to need this nightly   
surrender to the dark. You hate it. I know you do. Through   
all the dross of your humanity, one thing remained clear   
and pure as the tone of a bell through an empty land. 

Never surrender, to anything. Fight on, and on, and on... 

Now, I would be the first to point out the foolishness of   
such actions without proper focus, but you have the gist of   
it, beloved. You will fight this surrender, coming through   
to the other side tireless and unquenchable. And I will   
help you. I will be there, always at your side, forever.

I will never leave you again.

And, oh, there will be so many battles to follow. Never   
fear, because I was once as unfinished as you, and I made   
it here. With you. It's beautiful, Mulder, I swear. No   
flower, no curve of a hip, no shallow victory of the world   
can compare to this. I have seen them. I have earned my   
medals. Nothing compares to this. 

You don't know of what I speak yet, do you, beloved? It's   
all right, I know it's hard to see such things and believe.   
'Especially when you're drugged into unconscious   
stupidity,' I hear you say, and I chuckle. I was always   
proud of my mind's ability to speak in your voice, so flat   
and solid. Other people's voices are like music, flowing,   
ephemeral. We are no such things, Mulder. Never doubt it. 

I am yours, beloved.

I am your anger, your fear, your pain, your desire. I will   
be your teacher, I am your lover. You will exist as I do,   
our own light in the darkness, knives for the living,   
burnings for the dead. You move in your sleep, a stutter of   
soft lips, a low moan... You can see it. I know you can.   
Hot winds, dry with the dust of the lost...

Do not mourn for them. Do not struggle so against the   
bonds. You sleep still, and your motions have all the   
effect of those of an insect trapped in amber. Do not   
mourn, beloved. Do not fight me. 

We are all given the chance to *become*, and if they'll   
never mount the heavens on grey wings, drifting upward,   
gently lifting, and cry their joy to the night... well,   
such was the choice they made. Is it not better this way,   
Mulder? 

It is. 

You'll see. 

You'll see. 

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> The challenge in question was to write an incubus story. Don't quite think I got there, but what the hell. I think this is something like a 'what if' story. What if Krycek was just as whacko as he seemed in "Shadows of Better Men"?


End file.
